Behind the Sun (37 page)

The little whitewashed cottages on Cumberland Street, however, had verandahs and occupied plots with enough room for trees and gardens; one even had birds in a cage near the front door, a pair of pink and grey cockatoos. Harrie had seen them in the trees outside the Factory and heard their dreadful screeching racket, too.

Mr Overton didn’t stop outside the shop, however, but turned the horse down an alleyway at the side of the store, arriving in a fenced and roughly cobbled yard littered with dog turds and crowded with wooden crates and barrels and pallets. A boy of around eight, about to hurl a stick for a squat white bulldog, froze when he saw the cart.

Mr Overton glowered. ‘Toby! I thought I told you to work in the shop today!’

Toby dropped his stick; the dog grabbed it and raced off with it. ‘I am in the shop!’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

‘I’m having my tea. Merry’s behind the counter.’

Harrie looked around. On one side of the yard a single stable sat adjacent to a shed whose door was fitted with a solid, dully gleaming padlock. In the opposite corner was wedged a chicken coop, though the chickens were roaming freely, annoying a tethered goat munching its way through a pile of hay and the remains of a cabbage. Between the stable and the coop lay a cesspit, its ill-fitting lid doing little to curb the stench rising from it.

She slid down from the cart, careful not to wake the sleeping kitten nestled against her midriff. Rescuing it had seemed such a marvellous idea at the time, but she was fairly sure convict servants weren’t allowed to keep pets.
And
it had done a wee — she could smell it.

‘Get your things, Harriet, and follow me,’ Mr Overton said.

Harrie hoisted her Factory-issue bag over her shoulder and followed him through a back door into a tiny vestibule with just enough room for a wall of shelves loaded with packets and paper bags and jars, and a narrow staircase. From upstairs came the sound of a child wailing. Peeking through the door that led into the shop, Harrie saw a girl of about ten or eleven behind the counter serving a customer.

The wailing grew louder as Harrie ascended the stairs behind Mr Overton, praying fervently the kitten wouldn’t wake up, Toby thumping up behind them. At the top there was no landing: the stairs simply arrived in the middle of the Overtons’ parlour. A large, harassed-looking woman with dark brown hair escaping from a house cap sat in an armchair rocking an infant perhaps a year old. The baby wore a white cotton gown and a broderie anglaise bonnet, though the bonnet had slipped sideways to reveal an extraordinary shock of black hair. Its face was bright red from bawling.

On a sofa opposite perched a little girl embroidering a handkerchief, her tongue sticking out like a tiny round of boiled ham, and on the floor sat a toddler making a high-pitched, slightly
frenzied humming noise as he played with a spinning top he couldn’t make spin. The moment he saw his father, he pushed himself to his feet and lurched towards him, anchoring himself to Mr Overton’s trouser leg.

Throwing his hat on a side table, Mr Overton announced, ‘Susannah, this is Harriet Clarke. Harriet, this is my wife, Mrs Overton. Harriet, you’ve met Toby, this is Lydia, six, and Bart, two, and baby Johanna. Merry, my ten-year-old, is downstairs in the shop.’

Harriet felt a pang of sadness. The children looked nice — they reminded her of Robbie, Sophie and Anna.

Susannah Overton heaved herself out of the armchair and passed the baby to Lydia. Susannah’s stays, Harrie saw, were strained to their limits and her chest was quite remarkable, though that was understandable if she was still nursing. Her wrist bones were very fine, however, which suggested she was not naturally a heavy woman. Perhaps having five children in a row had taken their toll — though where Harrie had come from that usually wore a woman’s body to the bone, not the opposite — or maybe it was being married to a successful grocer that had filled her out.

‘You’re later than I was expecting,’ Mrs Overton said somewhat crossly.

‘Waylaid,’ Mr Overton said, as though the single word explained everything.

‘Bushrangers?’ Toby asked eagerly.

‘Business,’ his father replied.

Mrs Overton moved closer to Harrie and looked her up and down. ‘Well, dear, at least you look healthy. The last one we had coughed all hours of the day and night and spent half her time in bed.’ She wrinkled her nose and stepped back. ‘What
is
that smell? It reminds me of…cats. I
really
can’t tolerate cats.’

1 October 1829, Sydney Town

Over the past fortnight, Sarah had discovered three things.

The first was that Adam Green didn’t own the shop or the rooms above it where he and Esther lived, but paid a significant amount of money every six months to lease the property, shops on George Street being considered prime real estate. He’d taken out the lease in 1825 for a period of ten years, with an option to renew at the end of 1835, and there were heavy financial penalties if he broke the agreement. Sarah knew this because one night she crept down the stairs from her tiny room at the top of the house, picked the lock on the drawer in Adam’s desk and went through his papers. He banked with the Bank of New South Wales and had two accounts, one for savings and one for the business. According to correspondence from the bank, the business account had sufficient in it to serve as working capital as far as she could tell, but the savings account went up and down alarmingly. This, she suspected, was probably due to Esther’s spending habits, about which Adam and his wife fought frequently.

This was the second thing she had discovered — Adam and Esther’s marriage didn’t appear to be a very happy one. They argued often, though never when they thought Sarah could hear them, though she usually did, and the atmosphere in the small house was
often frosty. Esther was fond of raising her voice, and Adam wasn’t, so Sarah had to strain to hear his side of the disagreements, which always followed a similar theme: she wanted him to make more money and he wanted her to spend less.

The third thing was that Esther Green didn’t like her — that had been plain from the day she had arrived. Far from being the old bag Sarah had imagined, Esther was very attractive — infinitely more alluring than Sarah believed herself to be — so why she’d taken against her, and so immediately, Sarah didn’t know. It was possible she just didn’t like the idea of another woman in her house, but as Esther refused to do laundry, sweep floors, wash pots or dishes, make beds, clean fire grates, empty chamber pots, sew, dust, polish, scrub or do anything else that resembled housework, it was clear she had desperate need of one. Surprisingly she did cook, and rather well. She also enjoyed reading; fiction was her favourite, especially books by lady writers such as Jane Austen and Fanny Burney. She was intelligent, that was obvious, and Sarah wondered why she didn’t help Adam by doing the accounts for the business.

She also shopped, mostly, it seemed, for things for the house. In fact, she went out shopping so often Sarah suspected her relentless spending might be some form of attack on her husband. Their home was already very nicely furnished. Her sofas and chairs were upholstered in heavy jacquard brocade; she had rugs in almost every room and on the stairs; the drapes were good-quality velvet and lace; the lamps were great ornate things that were a bugger to clean; there were mirrors and paintings and little tables and bits and pieces everywhere; and her kitchen held every tool a cook could possibly want. And in the last two weeks she had still come home with more! Really, it was as though she were possessed with the need to buy and buy and buy. No wonder she and Adam fought about it.

It didn’t make her happy, however, all the spending. She was a very bad-tempered piece of work, Esther Green. Tempted on occasion to ask Adam why, Sarah decided in the end her moderate
level of interest didn’t warrant summoning the nerve. It was their business, not hers. Whatever the reason, when Esther was home she went out of her way to test Sarah’s tolerance and patience. She watched her constantly, presumably to prevent her from stuffing stolen property up her skirt, and checked that chores had been completed to her high standards, but Sarah ploughed through the housework quickly and efficiently, ensuring Esther could never legitimately complain about anything. Then she waited for Adam to call her into the shop or his workroom, which only irritated Esther even further, which she demonstrated by appearing unannounced at irregular intervals for no apparent reason. Sarah wondered if Adam had at some point been sprung dallying with a servant, leaving Esther perpetually mistrustful and on edge. But really, why should she expect
her
husband to be any different from any other woman’s?

At the end of each day, Sarah was exhausted and utterly relieved to trudge up to her room and collapse on the iron bedstead, bleary-eyed and sore. After her forced inactivity in gaol and the limited exertion during the voyage on the
Isla
, working from dawn until nine at night was physically gruelling, but already she could feel muscles firming and her strength returning. It hurt, but in a way that felt good, helping her focus her thoughts when she was awake. And when she wasn’t she slept without dreaming, which was a blessing.

6 October 1829, Parramatta Female Factory

Rachel looked guileless. ‘I took it off to go to the privies and now it’s gone.’

Friday sighed; Rachel had lost her sling again. It was good muslin and someone would have pinched it. This was the third one misplaced, but she didn’t blame her. It was hard enough keeping your balance over those disgusting pits as it was, without having to wipe your arse with one arm hoisted up to your neck.

‘Never mind, we’ll get you another one,’ Janie said, a baby balanced on each hip.

Rosie was doing remarkably well, especially given how many other infants weren’t, at the Factory. But poor Willie was failing, even though Janie had plenty of milk for him. He’d never really thrived; he frequently spewed up his milk and cried far more than Rosie did. He didn’t like the light either, screamed at loud noises, and was often feverish. Mr Sharpe suspected tuberculous meningitis, but he hadn’t needed to tell Janie that — she’d seen it plenty of times in England. Consumption of the brain killed babies and small children all the time. It was usually passed to them in the womb by their mothers, and Janie was sure Evie Challis had had galloping consumption, though she’d always denied it. Evie’s daughter had gone as well. Too old to remain at the Factory, she’d been removed to the Female Orphan School a few miles downriver. Janie had been devastated, but there was nothing to be done about it.

‘I want
Friday
to get me another one,’ Rachel said.

A wave of guilt churned through Friday’s gut. It felt awful, stirring up pain she’d thought long buried. ‘I can’t, love. I’m leaving, remember? I’ve been assigned.’

‘I know, but can’t you stay just one more day?’

‘I’m really sorry, love. But Janie’ll look after you.’

Janie gave Rachel one of her radiant if crooked smiles. ‘You can help me with the babies. It’ll be good practice.’

‘And don’t forget,’ Friday said, ‘Harrie’ll be back soon.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as she can.’ Though God only knew when that might be. Friday certainly didn’t. How long
did
it take to annoy your employers to the point that they sent you back to the Factory, without actually crossing a line that might land you in real trouble?

Rachel met her gaze and held it. Today, she knew exactly what was what. ‘She has to be careful, doesn’t she?’

Friday took her hand. ‘Yes, she does. But she will be, don’t worry.’

‘And will you and Sarah come and see me?’

‘Of course we will.’

They hugged fiercely, but as Friday turned to go, Rachel grabbed her sleeve.

‘Friday?’

‘What love?’

‘I’m never going to leave here, am I?’

Friday stood outside the gates of the Factory, smoking her pipe and still feeling upset and distracted, aware that the portress was watching her through the slot in the wicket. She turned and gave her the finger then looked up at the gathering, pewter-edged clouds, hoping it wasn’t going to rain. Her new employer apparently owned a hotel on the Rocks and would probably collect her in some shitty old cart normally used for hauling kegs and hogsheads, which meant she would get soaked on the long ride into Sydney Town.

If the cove turned up at all: she’d been standing here for an hour.

God, she hoped Rachel and Janie would be all right. She thought they probably would be; Janie wasn’t anywhere near as gormless as she looked. She was tough and capable and would look after Rachel as best she could. In any case, the biggest source of trouble they might have faced, as far as Friday could foresee, had already left the Factory. Bloody Bella Jackson — what a cunning cow! How the
hell
had she managed that? She’d barely been in the bloody place long enough to open those bloody trunks of hers. And instead of being delighted to see the back of her, Friday had felt angry and
bitterly
disappointed. Because it wasn’t finished between them, not by a long shot. Still, Sydney wasn’t a big town. Her chance would come and she knew how to wait.

At last, she heard the distinct sound of hooves approaching along the gravel road and tapped the tobacco embers out of her
pipe. Though what came to a halt before the gates was not a shitty old cart, but a landau with its hoods up, drawn by a handsome four-in-hand. The body of the vehicle was lacquered a deep, gleaming maroon colour and had no identifying insignia on the door, and the single window space was covered by a gauze shade. A coachman sat high on his seat at the front, staring impassively ahead.

As Friday stood gaping, the door swung open and a voice from within commanded, ‘Come on, hurry up and get in. It’s going to rain soon.’

A female voice.

Friday placed her foot on the step, climbed up into the landau and sat down without being invited, the interior being too low-ceilinged for her to remain standing. She pushed her bag beneath the seat.

The woman sitting opposite had clearly been beautiful in her youth and, though she was still handsome now, time had done its best to rob her of her looks. Lines nested around faded green eyes and ran from her nose to her mouth, accentuating slight jowls that would only droop even more in coming years. She was a little overweight, which helped to plump out cheeks that might otherwise have sagged and gave her a bosom a younger woman might envy. Her hair was henna-ed chestnut brown and she wore a touch of rose-tinted balm on her lips and cheeks and an old-fashioned beauty spot on the left side of her top lip. Unless it was a real mole — Friday didn’t want to look too closely.

For a woman whose husband owned a pub, her clothes were very smart, as smart as her mode of transport. It was a warm day, despite the threat of rain, so she wore no cape, but her dress was of quality polished cotton — not that Friday really knew what she was talking about when it came to dress fabrics, Harrie was the one for that — in a vibrant orange-red colour, with the fitted waist and puffy sleeves that had been the rage with the nobby women in London. The ribbon and silk flowers on her straw hat matched perfectly.

Friday pulled off her horrible Factory bonnet and scratched her head, her curls springing out in all directions. ‘I thought I’d be working for a bloke. Gordon said I’d be going to a Mr B Hislop.’

‘Well, you’re not,’ the woman said, ‘you’ve been assigned to me, Elizabeth Hislop. Mr Hislop is my husband and he’s away at sea much of the time.’

The carriage rocked slightly and the coachman’s face appeared at the window. He was a good-looking cove, Friday noted, and perhaps a potential source of profit? She winked and was encouraged by his smirk.

Mrs Hislop seemed not to notice. ‘Back to town, thanks, Jack.’

Jack disappeared and a moment later the landau moved off in a wide arc, gravel crunching under the wheels.

Mrs Hislop reached into a large reticule on the seat beside her and took out two oranges, offering one to Friday. ‘Tell me about yourself, Friday. I like to know a bit about the girls who come to work for me. Your name, for instance. It’s quite unusual.’

Friday stared at the orange in delight; she hadn’t had one in ages. In fact, the last one she’d eaten she’d pinched off a stall at Covent Garden market. Carefully, she bit into the skin to start the peeling process.

‘No, dear,’ Mrs Hislop remarked benignly, ‘we don’t peel oranges like that. Not in my house, anyway. Use this.’

She passed across a small utensil with a mother-of-pearl handle concealing a short blade, which looked to Friday suspiciously like a fancy flick knife. She opened it and had the peel off her orange in about five seconds.

‘Friday is short for Frideswide, as in Saint,’ she began, juice running down her chin. ‘Ma was a Catholic and always praying to this saint and that saint. And when I came along I suppose she thought Frideswide was as good a name as any. St Frideswide was a beautiful rich virgin who lived over a thousand years ago and built a church in Oxford and took the veil and did miracles, or something.’

‘And you’ve no children of your own?’

‘No.’

‘Husband?’

Friday shook her head and broke off another segment of orange.

Mrs Hislop dabbed at her mouth with a linen handkerchief. ‘The documentation Mrs Gordon provided stated you were sentenced for robbing a man of his watch and walking stick. Is that correct?’

‘It is.’

‘I know as well as you do that the word “robbing” means you stole those things from his person, so do you mind if I ask what you and he were doing at the time?’

‘Well, it’s not hard to work out, is it?’ Friday looked ruefully at her last three orange segments. Should she eat them now or save them for later? ‘I’m a prostitute, right? The plan was to loosen him up, get his kecks off, then grab the swag and run.’ She laughed. ‘But he was nervous and such a weedy little cove. He drank too much and passed out and we helped ourselves.’

‘Mmm.’ Mrs Hislop finished her orange, blotted her mouth again and replenished her lip balm. ‘I own a hotel in town, down on the Rocks, the Siren’s Arms. You may have heard of it?’

Friday shook her head.

‘No, of course not, you’ve only just arrived. We do meals, accommodation and the like. I have quite a large staff as we get very busy of an evening and there are the rooms to look after, too. So I’m often taking on domestic servants, and of course I need bar staff, and there are always a few lads to help out with the heavier work, the kegs and what have you.’